IT WAS JUST after lunch when Ben’s cell rang. On the little screen Donnie’s number flashed. Ben’s heart gave a leap. A smile crept onto his face, and he snatched up the phone. Their amazing lovemaking last night had been on his mind all morning. After looking around to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear a quiet conversation, Ben took the call right there at his desk.

“Hey, what’s—”

“Ben?”

And just with that breathless uttering of his name, the smile slid off Ben’s face. He sat up straight. “Donnie, what is it?”

“He...he’s come back.”

Ben was already out of his seat before Donnie’s voice stuttered to a halt. He grabbed his keys and jacket with one sweep. “Floyd?”

“Yeah. I...Ben...” Donnie sounded terrified, hardly able to speak.

“I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes, tops.” He would be faster without the distraction of the phone, so Ben hung up, even though he longed to keep Donnie talking.

Just when he strode from the incidence room, Jason came down the corridor, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “Ben, what—”

“Family emergency,” Ben called, already halfway to the door. “Fill you in later.” And with that, he pushed open the front door and hurried into the parking lot. Later, Ben couldn’t remembered the drive to the Saunders’s house. There was only one thought in his head, one phrase on his lips, repeated under his breath over and over like a prayer. Please, let him be all right!

Ben had his own keys to the house now, and he almost dropped them in his haste to get the door open. Finally the latch clicked, and he stormed inside.

“Donnie?”

The living room was empty and looked normal. The house was quiet. Ben hurried down the hallway.

“Donnie!”

The door to Floyd’s room stood open. Silhouetted in it was Donnie, who turned around.

His face was pale, the indigo eyes wide with terror. His bottom lip was split, and blood ran down his chin.

Ben strode over to him and, without thinking, reached for the other’s face. Donnie flinched. “Don’t...”

Then Ben heard it. It was a terrible sound, wet and raspy. He’d never heard anything like it in his life. The sound repeated a few times, then stopped, only to pick up again after a second.

As if compelled, Donnie turned around into the room that Ben had never seen before, and Ben looked past him. Floyd’s bedroom was a complete mess, and Ben shuddered to think that this chaos had been in there the whole time.

There were ragged, dirty pieces of clothing strewn everywhere. Rubbish, bedding, and worst of all, drug paraphernalia of all kinds were littered on the floor. Ben mused that, when the brothers had lived together, Donnie must have come in here at times to at least throw out any leftover bits of food, or else the house would swarm with vermin by now.

Floyd lay on the unmade bed, dirty sheets bunched around him. The man shivered hard, and for a moment, Ben thought he was having a seizure. He pushed into the room past Donnie who still stood rooted to the spot. Something crunched under Ben’s shoe, and he looked down. A crack pipe lay there, now broken into tiny pieces.

“Don’t touch him,” Donnie whispered. Ben looked up. He had never before seen such inhuman fear on another person’s face, and it broke his heart. He nodded, trying to catch Donnie’s eyes, but Donnie stared past Ben, transfixed by his unconscious brother on the bed.

“I won’t, Donnie. It’s okay.” Ben didn’t think Donnie could even hear him, but before he could say anything else, a raspy, wet cough from Floyd diverted Ben’s attention. He went over to the bed, picking his way through the debris.

If he hadn’t been lying here in his own house, Ben would never have recognized the man. In the picture Donnie had brought to the station, Floyd had looked older than his forties, but now he looked about eighty.

He was emaciated, the pants and dirty undershirt he wore several sizes too large. His arms were like sticks, and there were fresh puncture marks from recent needle use on them. The worst thing, however, was the face. Ben bent over him, revolted but unable not to look. Behind him, Donnie gave a low moan.

Floyd’s face was covered in open sores, yellowed skin like parchment stretching over his skull. His eyes had rolled back so that only the whites were visible. Blood covered his chin and neck, and stained the front of his chest. There were bloody tissues strewn over the mattress, and bloody handprints on the sheets.

Then, suddenly, there came a gurgling, choking sound from deep inside Floyd’s chest, followed by another weak, bloody cough. It made Ben jump. Donnie moaned again.

Ben pulled out his phone and dialed 911.

“State your emergency.”

“Operator, this is Sergeant Ben Griers. I need an ambulance for a critically ill man.”

Ben heard a faint noise behind him and turned around in time to see Donnie’s heel disappear from sight.

“What is the address, Officer?” Ben gave it to the woman.

“The ambulance will be there in ten minutes. Do you know the nature of the illness, sir?”

“Yes,” Ben said, a lump in his throat. He had seen a case like this once before, in a training video back at the academy. “It’s end-stage tuberculosis.”

He hung up, not waiting for a reply and the words of caution that would be coming next. He had to help Floyd, whose breathing was even more erratic now. Ben was aware how infectious the sick man was. He didn’t worry about himself, but the thought of contracting anything that could jeopardize Donnie’s health in turn gave him pause.

But he couldn’t let anyone drown in their own blood, not even the man who, to the last, had been nothing but cruel to Donnie. Ben went into the bathroom and retrieved a pair of latex gloves from a box they kept there. Then he hurried back to Floyd’s side. There wasn’t much he could think of doing, other than try to help him breathe. Ben picked up a ratty old pillow from the floor and lifted Floyd’s upper body, careful not to get any blood on his uniform. He propped the man up and waited. Finally Floyd’s breathing eased a little, and Ben let out a sigh of relief.

He was close enough to Floyd that he could feel the furious heat radiating from the sick man’s skin, and the cloying stink of necrotic lung tissue was overpowering. Ben suppressed a shudder and straightened up, pulling off the gloves and dropping them on the floor. Then he turned and left the room, his mind on Donnie.

Donnie paced in the yard, visible through the open front door as Ben crossed the living room. He stopped on the stoop, feeling the agitation from Donnie across the distance that separated them. His movements as he strode back and forth on the dusty, dead lawn were jerky, and he kept his whole body averted. Ben waited. After a minute, Donnie slowed and came to a halt a few feet away, biting hard on his thumbnail. There was blood on Donnie’s arms and the front of his shirt, a handprint visible where Floyd must have yanked on it.

“Is he dead?”

“No. I called an ambulance. Donnie...”

But Donnie shook his head several times, like a dog tortured by flies. “He was hardly sick when he left,” he whispered. “We fought... he hit me cuz I didn’t want him to give up. He said he’d had enough. Never thought he meant it, tho.”

“He’s got AIDS, doesn’t he?”

Donnie nodded, then, to Ben’s surprise, looked up and straight at him. “Is he gonna die?” There were tears in his eyes, and one spilled over and ran down Donnie’s face. Ben wanted to rush to Donnie, scoop him up, and hold him tight. He wanted to tuck Donnie into bed and keep him safe. Let the paramedics take Floyd and deal with him. This was just too much for them both. Ben looked at Donnie, the despair on his face, his cut lip still bleeding, his bloodied arms hanging by his side. Somehow, he looked very young.

Ben shook his head. “I called the ambulance,” he repeated. He couldn’t bring himself to say what was obvious.

Floyd was dying.

For a moment, it looked like Donnie would come to him, seek comfort in his arms. But before he had taken half a step, an ambulance came barreling down the dirt road and stopped by the fence, tires screeching.

THEY WATCHED THE paramedics take Floyd from the house. The men looked eerie in their masks and gowns, and Floyd looked even more shrunken inside a special containment tent they had draped over the gurney. Ben stood next to Donnie, not daring to touch him. He was afraid Donnie might bolt if given even the slightest provocation.

Before they followed the ambulance to the hospital, Ben coaxed Donnie back into the house, got him to wash off the blood from his arms, change out of the bloody shirt, and dab some iodine on the cut on his lip. Then Ben got a jacket on him and they set off.

Donnie didn’t speak the whole way. He sat in the passenger seat, taut as a bowstring, jiggling his leg and chewing his nail again. When he took the hand away from his mouth, it shook, the nail bitten bloody.

They had to wait a long time in the ICU corridors before anyone would tell them what was going on. Donnie paced the hallway, driving Ben to distraction. He still wasn’t sure Donnie wouldn’t just run off if he tried to calm him, so Ben just watched, hurting for him. After an hour’s relentless pacing, Donnie finally slowed down, utter exhaustion settling over his face.

“C’mere,” Ben said, patting the seat next to him on the bench that ran along the corridor wall. To Ben’s surprise, Donnie staggered over and sat down heavily. He kept his face averted and still wouldn’t speak.

At last, the doctor found them and led them into a quiet room off a side corridor. It was Dr. Greene, the same doctor who had taken care of Donnie when he had been admitted with the pancreatitis. Ben made Donnie sit on the sofa.

“Donnie,” Dr. Greene began, “I’ll be very honest with you. It really doesn’t look good for Floyd. He has advanced tuberculosis, which has gone completely untreated. His AIDS status means that the progression of the disease will have been rapid. Were you aware that he was off the antiretrovirals?”

Donnie nodded but didn’t speak. Ben said, “Floyd disappeared about six weeks ago. He only came back today.”

The doctor’s gaze on Donnie was full of sympathy and worry. “We’ve made Floyd comfortable; your brother’s not in any pain. But Donnie, we haven’t put him on a ventilator yet. Floyd’s lungs are heavily damaged, and he has developed secondary infections on several vital organs. Without the HIV meds, his immune system has shut down completely and he has nothing to fight with anymore. I need to ask you: Do you want us to put Floyd on a ventilator, and give him antibiotics?”

Donnie said nothing, only looked at the doctor. The confusion and plea for help on Donnie’s face were heartbreaking. Dr. Greene seemed to understand.

Gaze on Donnie full of pity, he continued, “In my opinion, even with the most aggressive treatment, Floyd will not survive. All we’d do is prolong his suffering. Donnie, do you want us to take extreme measures?”

After a moment, Donnie shook his head. “No,” he whispered hoarsely.

Dr. Greene looked relieved but had more on his mind. “There is one other thing. Acute TB is highly contagious, and even just spending a short time with an infected person, especially so late in the disease, carries a very high risk of infection. Your own HIV status means we have to be extra careful. I want to put you on Isoniazid. It will protect you from the TB, but you might have to keep taking it for up to nine months.” He looked at Ben. “And you, too. We can’t risk anyone around Donnie getting sick.”

Ben nodded. He’d do anything to keep Donnie safe. “Of course.”

Donnie slumped a little, and even without physical contact, Ben could feel his muscles quiver with the stress. He couldn’t take Donnie’s misery any longer. Ben put his hand on Donnie’s neck. Donnie exhaled shakily and leaned against Ben’s chest. Ben stroked his neck, and Donnie gave a sob.

“I wanna be with him,” he said in a small, shaking voice.

The doctor looked at Ben with an eyebrow raised, and Ben craned his neck to glimpse at Donnie’s profile. This close, he could see the cut on his lip in every detail. With an inward sigh, Ben gave the doctor a small nod.

Dr. Greene said, “All right, but you’ll have to suit up. Floyd’s under quarantine.”

“I’m coming, too,” Ben said as they got up.

Donnie turned to him, shaking his head and looking scared. “No, Ben. Don’t... I don’t want you to take that risk.”

Ben held Donnie’s gaze, his eyes red from the tears, and reached out to squeeze the other’s arm. “If you’re going, I’m going.”

Donnie’s expression grew soft, and he looked like he might cry again. But instead he nodded and said in a quiet, stunned voice, “Stay back, though.”

In a staff changing room, they put on gowns, gloves, masks, and goggles. Ben helped Donnie with the shoe protectors, then sat down on the bench next to him and took his gloved fingers.

“Donnie, are you sure? I know he’s your brother, but...”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to say what was on his mind. He hurt you so bad, then disappeared without a trace, he wanted to shout at Donnie. And he hurt you again today. And I can’t bear the thought of you getting sick because that loser decided to throw his life away. That selfish dick didn’t even think his own brother was worth staying healthy for.

Donnie didn’t need him to say it. Ben could see in his eyes that Donnie understood him. He licked his dry, chapped lips, wincing as his tongue made contact with the cut. “I gotta do it, Ben.”

“All right.” Ben nodded and, after a moment, repeated, “All right.”

Donnie tightened his grip on Ben’s hand, his eyes behind the plastic safety goggles filling with tears. Then he pulled the paper mask over his lower face and got heavily to his feet. Ben followed suit. They walked from the changing room holding hands.

The doctor led them to the isolation chamber. When they stepped through the door, Donnie let go of Ben and turned his head.

“Stay back,” he warned again. His voice was muffled through the mask and his eyes behind the goggles were huge with fear.

Ben nodded, and Donnie approached the bed where a body lay motionless. Ben couldn’t see Floyd’s face from his vantage point and was glad. The beeping of the machines and the soft murmuring of the nurses that came and went were the only sounds.

IT TOOK THE rest of the day for Floyd to die. One of the nurses brought Ben a chair, and he sat down in a corner, attention unwaveringly on Donnie. Ben only left the room once, when the doctor asked to speak with him.

“I thought I’d tell you first: We need to make a report about Floyd to the CDC. All TB cases get recorded. When we contact them, a team will be dispatched to clear the infected person’s home. If I tell them that a police officer has already done that, nobody will ask any questions.” Dr. Greene’s eyes were kind. “We have to report the TB, Ben, but Donnie and you don’t need the rest of Floyd’s life dragged into the limelight.” The doctor hesitated. “I saw the needle marks, and the alcohol damage to Floyd’s liver.”

Ben nodded at Dr. Greene, grateful for his discretion. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Then Ben made a phone call to a useful crime scene contact he had worked with on several cases, told the man to send the bill directly to him, and doubled the fee. His and Helen’s savings were taking a hit in all this. He promised himself he’d make it up to her, even though he couldn’t mention half of what was going on with Donnie to her. The task concluded, Ben returned to his vigil over Donnie.

Whenever Ben thought it might have any chance of success, he asked the nurses to bring Donnie something to eat and drink. Donnie refused all food, but finally, around dusk, when Ben wouldn’t stop his pleading across the sickroom, he let one of the nurses pull down his mask and sipped some water through a straw.

And then one of the machine’s beeping became frantic. Dr. Greene stepped to Donnie’s side, and Ben straightened up. The doctor rested his hand on Donnie’s shoulder. Donnie went stiff, then slumped into himself, apparently too exhausted to care. He gripped his brother’s fingers more tightly.

The doctor spoke quietly, and his words were just audible over the annoying machine noise. “Floyd’s breathing is becoming too erratic, Donnie. His blood isn’t carrying enough oxygen anymore.”

“Is...is he in pain?” Donnie sounded very scared.

“No. Do you want me to turn this off?”

Donnie nodded. When the next monitor started flashing red and beeped, the doctor turned that off, too. The room was quiet for a moment. Ben stood up.

The wet, labored breathing from the bed was loud in the sudden silence. Donnie’s shoulders tightened with his brother’s dying breaths. One breath. Silence. Another breath. A longer silence. A breath that sounded like a moan. Then nothing.

Dr. Greene let go of Donnie’s shoulder and placed one gloved finger against Floyd’s neck. They waited for what felt like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.

“Time of death: nine thirty-two p.m.,” Dr. Greene announced.

Ben moved before Donnie was on his feet, and that was a good thing. Donnie turned, took one step, and then staggered as his knees gave way. Ben caught him, and Donnie clung to his forearm so hard it hurt.

“S’okay. I got you.” Ben held him until Donnie’s eyes lost their vacant expression and he was able to get his feet under himself again. Ben waited until Donnie gave a little nod and Ben was sure he wouldn’t pass out. Then he shifted Donnie around in his arms until they stood chest to chest, Donnie breathing hard. For a long moment, they didn’t move.

“Ben, I...,” Donnie said finally, but his voice broke. Ben waited. Donnie started again. “I...I don’t wanna die like this.”